


For Now Everything Just Seems So Right

by ChemFishee



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: 2010 Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 13:50:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChemFishee/pseuds/ChemFishee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad is starting to feel slightly less gritty, but there’s still hot water left, and he’s got time to kill.<br/>(February 2010)</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Now Everything Just Seems So Right

**Author's Note:**

> Title from J. Cole's "Lights Please."  
> (Comment!Fic originally posted [here](http://chemfishee.livejournal.com/165610.html?thread=1736170#t1736170).)

The shower was what sold Brad on the bungalow. He couldn’t give a shit about granite versus marble countertops or bamboo flooring or mission-style tiles. He wanted a covered carport for his bike and boards, proximity to the ocean (yet far enough away to not have random people use the backyard as a thoroughfare) and a shower big enough for two, maybe even three  
  
This shower has cut-glass tiles – more of a bitch to clean than he would’ve thought – and a glass door that swings out into the bathroom and two showerheads with differentiable settings. Nate seems especially partial to the pulse settings.  
  
Brad grabs a bottle of shampoo from the ledge built into the corner. Nate’s flight is due in two hours, and Brad’s still trying to wash all the sand and salt from this morning’s run on the beach off. He digs his fingers into his scalp and works up a foamy lather. His hair is decidedly longer now, and he hasn’t shaved all week. He has two more weeks of leave. He doesn’t intend to spend them worrying about a fucking grooming standard.  
  
Brad ducks his head under the spray, thoughts drifting to Nate and what they’ll do here during his vacation. The whole long-distance thing – fuck that, the whole being with _Nate_ thing – necessitates that they will spend most of their time fucking. But muscles cramp, and recovery periods lapse. They’re going to need to do something else for at least a _few_ hours over the next fourteen days.  
  
Brad snags a washcloth hanging on a hook and squirts out a generous dollop of soap. They could make their way to Santa Monica Pier again. Remembering that trip and how Nate had squirmed further into his back every time Brad revved the engine has Brad smiling into the spray. That was a good day.  
  
Brad is starting to feel slightly less gritty, but there’s still hot water left, and he’s got time to kill. He curls his fingers loosely around the base of his mostly-soft dick. He rocks his hips forward and back a few times, trying to conjure up a picture of Donna from page 72 of last month’s _Juggs_. She had wide brown eyes, straightened dyed-reddish hair and tits that would spill out of the biggest handfuls. Brad tightens his grip fractionally, hardening into his fist.  
  
He tugs a few more times, and the picture changes to page 103 of December’s _Hustler_. There’s a natural dirty blonde propped on the edge of a kitchen table, head lolled back while she holds herself open with chipped black fingernails for the brunette licking along her labia. Her eyes are closed like maybe, just maybe, she’s forgotten the photographer’s there.  
  
Brad’s hand flies through the upstroke and twists at the crown. His nail catches behind the head and drags along the vein on the underside of his dick on the downstroke. He’s focused on the brunette buried between the other chick’s legs, her arms wrapped around the blonde’s thighs and pulling her closer to the edge of the table. He can hear the slurp as she drags the clit between her teeth. His hips cant into his fist as he rocks up on his toes, speeding up that much more.  
  
Brad isn’t aware he’s not alone until he feels hard planes press into his back and strong fingers wrap around his. He stutters on the next downstroke. Nate’s fingers slip up Brad’s cock , slick with lube he must have dug out of the cabinet. Brad leans into the body behind him, and Nate’s grip shifts. He feels teeth tug on his ear lobe and looses a groan. The blonde would have done the same thing in a higher pitch as the other woman’s tongue licked into her and nails dug into her soft inner thighs.  
  
Nate whispers something Brad can’t quite catch, but he doesn’t ask Nate to repeat it. He opens his eyes and looks down at his cock sliding into Nate’s fist, just this side of too-tight. His mouth drops open when Nate twists in the opposite direction Brad usually goes. Brad reaches behind him, gripping at Nate’s thigh to hold him close as Brad stretches from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. His head slumps forward, and he’s coming thick and sticky, watching the drops splatter on Nate’s hand and forearm.  
  
It takes a good three minutes before he can get his voice back. “Thought your flight didn’t get in until 11:30.” It sounds like honey over sand paper, rough around the vowels.  
  
“Took an earlier flight.” Nate lets go of him, washing his hand in the spray still falling. He turns Brad and pulls him down for a kiss, tongue fucking into Brad’s slack-jawed mouth. “Hi.”  
  
Brad’s grinning when he dives back in for another kiss, Nate's nails scraping the grain of his beard. “Hi.”


End file.
